


Perfection (Comparisons Are Odious Remix)

by out_there



Category: West Wing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-14
Updated: 2005-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:52:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's kind of impossible to say perfect isn't good enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfection (Comparisons Are Odious Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [RemixRedux](http://remix.illuminatedtext.com/index.php) challenge and is a sort-of prequel to AMJ's [Stereotypical](http://www.geocities.com/snchica/stypical.html). This was also written for [](http://celli.livejournal.com/profile)[**celli**](http://celli.livejournal.com/)'s Taxfic challenge, which is why it's being re-posted.

Perfection, Sam was beginning to realise, was overrated.

It was something of a surprise to him. He'd always strived for perfection: the perfect word, the perfect phrase, the perfect speech. He'd tried to be the perfect son: dutiful, polite and courteous, with SAT scores that almost beat Josh's. He'd tried to be the perfect political staffer -- which, admittedly, he'd managed to fail pretty spectacularly with the whole Laurie affair -- and now his quest for perfection had come back to kick him in the teeth.

When it came down to the line --

Perfection sucked.

Take Trent, for example. Trent was the perfect boyfriend. In every aspect, in every possible way, he was perfect.

Looks? Perfect. He had a dancer's body -- technically, a danseur's body -- lean and strong without an inch of fat. It was mesmerising to watch those muscles move, to trace the shadows sliding across that black-coffee skin.

Personality? Trent was tender and sensual, funny and smart. He supported increased spending on education and welfare, believed that the environment was just as important as the economy, and completely understood why Sam kept this side of his private life under wraps. In fact, he didn't just tolerate the secrecy; he defended it and claimed that all couples should keep public displays of affection to a minimum.

Even the sex was perfect: just long enough, just hard enough, just fast enough. Trent was confident and physical, and there was never that moment of 'oh, wait, you're leaning on my arm' awkwardness. No embarrassing love bites to hide, no hard-to-explain bruises. Trent was never too tired or just not in the mood, and he seemed to have no objection to late night booty calls. Frankly, it was disturbing. Just because Sam stopped by at 11pm with Chinese food, saying his mind was too mush-like to talk, didn't mean he wanted to have knee-trembling, incredible sex.

And that was the problem: Trent was too perfect. The first time Sam slept with the perfect lover, it was amazing, thrilling, mind-blowing. After the fifth time, he found himself watching those sculpted abs and thinking he needed to go to the gym sometime this week.

The one upshot was that when they eventually broke up, Sam would be able to say, "It's not you, it's me" with perfect honesty. There wasn't anything wrong with Trent -- not a single, solitary thing -- so Sam knew where the fault lay.

"Hey," Josh said, sliding into the cafeteria seat opposite Sam, and dragging Sam out of his meandering thoughts. "I'm guessing your mind wasn't within ten miles of Washington."

Sam blinked. Josh was wrong; his thoughts had been in Washington, they'd just been circling around the Kennedy Center. "I was thinking."

Josh snorted, setting his cup of coffee and bag of vending-machine peanuts on the table. "Cathy said you'd been down here for a while. Is the tax thing giving you grief?"

"The President's looking over it right now." One of the things too-perfect boyfriends were good for was making him bury himself in work. Well, really, that wasn't just Trent. Sam always applied himself when his personal life was threatening to explode. It was a productive coping mechanism.

"You know he'll have a problem with the economic language, right?"

"He'll try to turn it into a Keynesian lecture, yes," he said, and took a sip of the coffee sitting in front of him. It was cold. He grimaced and pushed the white mug away.

"As long as he doesn't try to justify accrual and withholding regulations in terms of GDP and standardized budgets," Josh said, proffering the bag of peanuts by pushing them into the middle of the table, "we'll be fine."

Sam drew a deep breath through his nose, sitting up a little higher in the low-backed wooden chair. "It manages to straddle the line between informative and interesting. I don't think there'll be too many changes."

"You cling to that vain hope," Josh scoffed, and swallowed a mouthful of his hot coffee. "So, if you weren't percolating ideas for the tax thing, what were you thinking about?"

Sam grabbed a handful of peanuts, holding them in his left hand as he picked at them with his right. "Nothing in particular."

Josh raised an eyebrow. "Considering you're a speechwriter for the President, you're a lousy liar, Sam."

That wasn't true -- wasn't even slightly true -- but Sam couldn't see the point in arguing it. Instead, he asked the question that had been concerning him all day. "Can someone be too perfect?"

"Does it bother you?" Josh grinned, shoving a small crowd of peanuts into his mouth. "If so, I'll see if I can tone down my natural brilliance and charm. Can't promise it'll work, but I'll try."

Sam smiled despite himself. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

"No, you're deluded. There is a slight, but important, difference between the two."

Josh rolled his eyes. "You're not too perfect, Sam. You're not even close."

"I wasn't talking about me. I was talking about... someone else."

Josh's eyes brightened, and he rested his elbows on the table, leaning across to ask, "Who?"

Sam sighed and pulled his glasses off. He'd been expecting that question. "I'm seeing someone."

"You're seeing someone," Josh repeated, leaning his chin on his hands. "And yet, I know nothing about it. What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing's wrong with her." Under his breath, Sam added, "It's exactly the opposite. Perfection personified."

Josh didn't look convinced. "If there was nothing wrong with her, I'd already know about her. But I don't, implying that you've shown your usual terrible taste in women."

Sam frowned. "That's harsh. And unfair."

"You do have bad judgement when it comes to women," Josh said, grimacing in an almost sincere way, "but, yeah, that was harsh. I've got a meeting with Harrison and his cronies this afternoon, so I have a lot of excess sarcasm I'm not allowed to use. Consider this me trying to get it out of my system."

"You'd need surgery to remove your sarcasm."

"I'd need a lobotomy," Josh laughed.

"That's what I was implying."

With a loose wave of his hand, Josh dragged the conversation back to the former topic. "So, why haven't I heard about Little Miss Perfect before?"

Sam shrugged, and took the last few peanuts. "I'm keeping it quiet."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want anyone telling nasty tales."

Josh started, nearly spilling his coffee. "Tell me she's not a call girl," he hissed across the table.

"She's not a call girl," Sam dutifully -- and quietly -- repeated.

"Really?"

"Yes," Sam replied somewhat testily. "I wasn't talking about the press, I was talking about you. You, and CJ, and Toby, and Donna. And Leo. All of you."

"Us?" For someone so guilty, Josh had an amazing ability to look innocent.

"Last time I was serious about someone, my boss showed her my opposition prep-work, and my colleagues went out of their way to tell her stories where I fall down a lot."

Josh smirked. "We didn't go out of our way."

"But you did tell her lots of stories where I walked into walls or fell down, right?"

"I told Mallory stories about work, not specifically about your clumsiness." Josh drank the last of his coffee. "It just happens that you fall down a lot at work."

Sam shook his head, wondering why he'd bothered to argue the point. "And you wonder why I refuse to introduce her to you?"

"I get it. You're hiding Miss Perfect because you don't want her to hear about the photocopier giving you a black eye."

"The photocopier didn't give me a black eye," Sam objected quickly. "It was the fax machine."

"And it was a shiner, too." Josh grinned smugly. "If I recall correctly, you weren't allowed in the press room for a week."

"That's precisely the story I don't need shared."

Josh shrugged. "Is it serious?"

"Your tendency to tell embarrassing stories? I'd say so."

"No, this thing with Miss Perfect," Josh clarified. "If you're worried about making a good impression, it must be serious."

Sam pushed a hand through his hair, glancing over at the sunshine-bright yellow walls of the mess room.

"Sam?" Josh asked in a tone as familiar as the sound of waves lapping onto the beach.

"I don't know."

"You don't know, as in it may become serious but isn't yet? Or you don't know, as in you don't know if you want it to be serious?"

"It's not..." Sam paused, tapping his fingers on the polished, wooden surface of the table. He had no idea how to explain that it was perfect, but it wasn't... He wasn't even sure what it wasn't, but it was kind of impossible to say that perfect wasn't good enough. "It's perfect, Josh. Unbelievably perfect."

"Then you've got nothing to worry about," Josh said, standing up, "whereas I have to go worry about Harrison. And let me tell you, he could stand to be a little more perfect."

"But then you wouldn't look so good in comparison," Sam called out as Josh walked off.

Josh looked over his shoulder, and shot Sam a bright grin. "Regardless of the comparison, I always look good."

Sam rolled his eyes, and ignored the small part of him that agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback can be left here or on [Livejournal](http://community.livejournal.com/inthetallgrass/167084.html?mode=reply).


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